


That Which is Needed

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Challenge Response, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A response to the Weekly Obbo challenge of: Addiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which is Needed

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, to Elizabeth O'Shea

Anson’s hand shook as he attempted to light his cigarette. Fuck. He breathed in, forced calm, and finally managed to light up. He drew in smoke, let it fill his lungs, then slowly released it. Bugger of a day.

“That’s a filthy habit,” Murphy said as he settled next to Anson on the low wall. His left hand was neatly bandaged and in a sling. Anson didn’t ask him how he was. He was mobile, which said enough. They both gazed across the street at the ambulance crews, the fire brigade, the covered bodies. 

Anson took another drag on his cigarette. It _was_ a filthy habit. He’d stop one day. He knew he would. But not today. Not after they’d lost Collins and Peters. Not when he could still hear Peters’ screams when the gasoline ignited. Not when they’d won, and it didn’t feel like a victory at all.

“Got another?” Murphy asked.

Anson gave him a cigarette and the lighter. They had lived to fight another day. He’d break the addiction another day.

*  
*****  
*

Cowley picked up his glass for a drink only to realise the whisky was gone. Damn. He set the glass down and stood up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back to his chair. With grim determination he waited it out till he felt more steady. How long had it been since he had eaten? Too long. Foolish. He reached for his phone.

“Yes, sir?” It was Julia’s voice rather than Betty’s. Of course. Rota change. He’d forgotten that would happen tonight. Another sign of the toll of the day.

“I realise the Canteen is closed, but—“

“I have a ham and cheese sandwich all ready for you, sir. I was just about to bring it in.”

“Thank you.” He set down the phone, feeling abashed even though he should have expected nothing less. Betty trained the secretaries well. Everyone in CI5 knew about the day’s events. Peters’ mother’s voice was still loud in his head: _He was just twenty-six_. He had told her, of course, that Peters had saved civilians—children. He’d told her they’d captured the villains. He’d told her Peters was one of his best. It hadn’t helped. It never did. 

The door opened and Julia walked in. “Here you are, sir.” She set a plate down—sandwich, salad, tomato and an apple—along with a glass of water. He eyed the water, then looked at Julia. “Betty’s orders, sir.” She smiled slightly. “She spoke with Mr Forbes.”

“I see. Very well. Thank you.” Damned interfering doctor.

Julia hesitated by the door. “Sir… There’s nothing more to be done tonight…surely?”

“There is always more to be done.” He softened his voice to add: “But I appreciate the concern.”

Julia nodded and left the office, closing the door behind her.

There was too much stress in his life, Jim had told him. It would kill him in the end, if he didn’t do something about it. He was supposed to limit his alcohol intake, eat regularly, sleep regularly, get exercise. Good advice. But they both knew the source of the stress, and the only real solution to the problem. Yet it was more than a job to him, it always had been. 

_It’s your addiction, George_.

Perhaps it was. But one day, too soon, he would be forced to retire. And then? Would he be like Brigadier Stadden, longing only for the old days, for a return to power, bitter about it, in the end?

No. No. If it was an addiction, it was one he could—would—beat. He would retire. He would transition to a new life. And, by God, he would make it count.

Until then, he was here. He was exactly where he wanted to be. He took a bite of his sandwich, washed it down with water, and reached for the next report.

*  
*****  
*

Bodie sat in the car, hands on the wheel, staring at the lighted window of Doyle’s third floor flat. His fucking hands were shaking. He released his grip, settled his hands on his lap. Nothing had happened to them today—nothing out of the ordinary. They’d been in the firefight, but it hadn’t been their case. They’d performed well, as a team, as always. The case had turned sour, the victory dearly bought, but that was part of the job. You moved on, you didn’t linger in the horror. But…he could still hear Peters’ screams.

Damn it! He’d heard worse; seen worse. Was it the unexpectedness of it? The op had blown up beyond all expectation. That had happened before. Was it that Peters was young, inexperienced…? But so, too, had Tony Miller been. He’d mourned Tony, but it hadn’t left him feeling as if he’d been gutted. Was it…? Yes. Peters had been too similar to Ray.

Bodie closed his eyes, shut out the light beckoning to him. Both coppers, both stroppy, both lean and lithe with curly— Stop. It hadn’t been Doyle’s silhouette. Doyle had been beside him. Where he belonged. He opened his eyes again and looked at the shimmering light. He knew Doyle better than he’d ever known anyone. Doyle knew him as no one had ever been allowed to do. And Doyle had made it plain some time ago—words not needed—there was more on offer, if he was brave enough—foolish enough?—to take it. Yet there _would_ be words if he went through that door. Eventually. Inevitably. Words of binding, commitment. Neither of them would play this game without them. 

He’d wanted Doyle for years, but he’d been content to leave well enough alone. He was with Doyle every day, near enough. Sex he could get anywhere, but he could never get enough of Doyle, it seemed. He didn’t understand it. The best word he could find to describe it was: addiction. His need for Doyle was like tobacco or adrenaline or power. He felt better when he was with Doyle; twitchy when he wasn’t. He’d give his life for Doyle. And yet…and yet…

He’d held something of himself apart. He hadn’t crossed the line. He’d known he could—could—walk away, if need be. 

A shadow crossed between the source of the light in the window and the drawn curtain. 

Ray.

If he did this—job or no—he would be Doyle’s forever. There would be no going back, no escape. This would be an addiction from which he could never walk away. And if Doyle did the walking? Bodie knew he would never recover. 

In, then? Or out?

It seemed the world stilled around him, like the quiet before you took your sniper shot. A life hung in the balance, teetered on the head of a pin.

Bodie opened his car door, closed it behind him and walked across the street. The door to the block opened before he reached it and Doyle stepped out. He wore no jacket, no gun, no protection. _We’re both lost_ , Bodie thought. But the warmth of Doyle’s hand proved him wrong. Together, they walked into Doyle’s flat.

END  
July 2016


End file.
